The Adventure of the Torturous Hearts
by ObservationofTrifles
Summary: "His extraordinarily logical mind had mapped out all of the possible outcomes of this meeting. He anticipated Shock. Anger. Denial. Life doesn't always follow one's anticipations." Sherlock comes back into John's life, trying to ameliorate the damage. A curious case comes and we see things returning to normality; but now the normal is slightly different for all of those involved.
1. Nervousness

**Hey! First of all, thanks for checking this out :) I hope you have fun reading this story, reviews are very appreciated, and I'd love it if you guys told me what you thought!**

_"A thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions-as attempts to find out something. Success and failure are for him answers above all."_  
_― Friedrich Nietzsche_

He got up from his bed this morning knowing exactly what he had to do, who he had to see, and how he was going to do it. His extraordinarily logical mind had mapped out all of the possible outcomes of this meeting.

Shock. Denial. Anger. Grief. Acceptance.

Denial. Shock. Anger. Acceptance. Anger. Grief. Acceptance.

Anger. Acceptance.

He had not slept in the longest time, the gears of his mind refusing to stop working in a most stubborn and selfish manner. In the last weeks, things had started meshing together; what he had do and what he had already done, and another pesky, unfortunate problem was rising from deep under the surface of his mind. Sentiment. Feeling. Emotion. And today he was nervous. Actually nervous. He stood in front of the mirror, looking at his tired and suddenly older face, running his hands through his curls in frustration. It couldn't be. He rubbed his eyes. It had been three years. Three years. Long, interminable days one after another, 1085 of them, to be exact.

He had to take a plane today. To London. From God-Knows-Where.

And he would. But for the first time in a long time, he felt that he needed to take a deep breath and step back. Rewind.

His phone beeped, showing a new text message.

_Get some sleep on the plane. It's a very long flight. -MH_

He took a second think and responded with a strangely uncharacteristic answer.

_ Do you think it will work out? -SH _

Almost immediately the phone beeped.

_It will take work. Everything takes work. -MH_

Deeply sighing, he turned the phone off and finally got dressed. Packing a couple of books in his bag, he stepped out of the door of the room, looking back upon it with both thankfulness and disgust in his heart.

* * *

He had to work this morning so that he would have a free evening. Gently untangling himself from Mary's grasp, he walked to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, he decided to leave the mustache which was, by his own admission, hideous, but Mary liked it. She said that it would help move on. He had slept very little for the last two years. After a year, he wasn't able to take the nightmares anymore, and only occasionally his body just powered off into a deep, and more importantly, dreamless, sleep. Otherwise he functioned and had grown accustomed to the headaches. Flexing his fingers on his left hand, and making a pained grimace while at it, he got ready for work. As he made himself tea, Mary came out of her, no, their room. She did not realize how much she had helped him, but how much he was still bent out of shape.

After a goodbye, they agreed of meet once more today at 20.00 at some small restaurant. The name was insignificant. A lot of things were insignificant.

He left, opening the door of his small flat and looking back out of a strange impulse. Good thing that Mary could not see him, for his face expressed pain and displeasure.

He went down the stairs of his building, his cane lessening the pain of the unpleasant experience only slightly.

* * *

_"Man's mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions."_

_― Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr._

He stepped out of the terminal. He looked around at the thousands of people around him. They all had their lives, their jobs, their families. A purpose. It's good to have a purpose, he thought, smelling the air. The brain's memory center is close it the sensory center, particularly the center of smell, so the memories rushing back were justified.

And then he travelled to one place where he knew he would be welcome.

He stepped through the doorway of 221B Baker Street, knowing that the landlady would be absent at this time. He slowly went up the stairs, relishing their familiar creaking.

And then he opened his door. Everything was the same. No, no, no, not everything. Hamlet was gone. His trustiest interlocutor was gone from the mantelpiece. He scanned through the rest of the living room, his gaze stopping at his violin case. Next to it used to lay a folder with his music. His notes. This was his personal passion which only a few people had ever truly heard. At Christmas parties he played one thing, but for himself he played another. Music has to be felt to be heard, felt with every fibre of one's being, and one has to truly listen. But he did not worry; the man in whose hands the notes had ended up knew how to listen, and he would have received them sooner or later anyways. He trusted him with the music.

Looking at the time and realizing that it was already 18.00, he threw his bag down on the sofa in the living room and raced down the stairs, slowing down just a bit over the creaky ones.

Excitement and nerves were finally stepping in.

* * *

His leg hurt so much right now that the pain made his limp even worse. He took out an orange pill bottle, taking out one of the small pills and hurriedly taking it.

After he got home, he quickly showered and dressed. As he passed himself in the mirror, he realized how miserable he looked. Mary did not do anything wrong to see his face so contorted. Except making him wear this mustache.

Sighing, he left for the reserved table at the restaurant at which they were it see each other. Mary was a good woman, earnest and sincere. Calm.

He sat down at exactly 19.30, waiting patiently for Mary to come. His cane neatly stood against his chair as he kept himself busy by thinking.

He thought about a multitude of things. Not all pleasant, not all light, but all important.

Mary was important. She wasn't perfect, but who is? She lacked one major thing, and that was intellectual spontaneity. That is what he came it call it. There was no other name for this trait, one present in such a small amount of people.

But he had a life, and something along the lines of a purpose, he thought. It's good to have a purpose.

He asked for some water and took out a half of the same pill he drank earlier. Unwillingly he took it, flexing his hand and his leg under the table.

**Hope you had fun! I'll update soon :) I'd love to know what you thought! **


	2. Miracles Cannot Happen

**Hello! I know that it is a bit short, but I hope I catch your eye nonetheless :) Have fun reading!**

* * *

_Every true genius is bound to be naive."_

_― Friedrich von Schiller_

* * *

He breathed in deeply, worriedly as he realized that he was approaching him. He looked into the restaurant and saw him. His mind screamed and whole body stung. His breathing became shallower. Fear, a primal emotion to which even he, he realized, was most definitely not immune.

So he stood, thinking, analyzing. And then he took the first step, and then the second.

Slowly, lacking in sureness, he started to walk up. There was no one sitting in the seat across from him yet.

He saw no rings on any of the man's fingers, but saw the protruding silhouette of a pillbottle through the cloth of his pockets.

He saw the man fiddling with his eating utensils, almost like a child. He smirked to himself, and yet he felt his newfound nervousness permeating through every fibre of his being right now.

And he came up just a little bit closer.

He saw John deep in thought, in some unknown study of his own. How he wished he knew what John was thinking so intently about.

And he took another step.

He looked and saw his eyes. Melancholy, human. Pained.

And this time his steps were smaller, but he put his right hand in his pocket, taking out a small piece of yellowing paper, or was it parchment..? He was very close, only about two metres away now.

Then his steps quickened and before John could acknowledge his presence, he left the piece of paper right on front of John on his plate, stepping away before John noticed him.

He anticipated Shock. Anger. Denial.

Life doesn't always follow one's anticipations.

* * *

Absentmindedly, he picked up the piece of paper, not noticing the person who had put it there, but more intrigued by the object itself.

He opened it, perusing the page; it was music, extremely complex and yet beautiful, even while only on paper. He could tell by the way the notes were placed, though he himself never played. Only one person wrote music with this sort of flair and he knew only person whose music even _looked _beautiful.

He turned around, hearing the man breathing shakily behind him.

His jaw dropped and no sound escaped. Tears welled up in his eyes, fear on his face. He stood up, stumbling and the second man had to help him keep standing. He pushed him away, frantically searching for his phone. He quickly typed:

_I can't tonight, Mary. I'm sorry. -JW_

He took his cane forcefully from the taller man who tried to hand it to him.

Hurriedly leaving the building, he shocked the other visitors with his strange facial expression and he shocked himself by the speed with which he walked, his pain forgotten and numbed by a greater pain somewhere else.

His mind hurt.

Miracles don't happen; people cannot reincarnate. No matter how many times you ask them to. They just don't.

Once he stepped out of the door, he felt nauseous, and every light but the brightest started dimming; the single bright one being the moon in the sky on which his worn-out brain focused. His legs and hands and entire body felt weak and gelatinous. The last thing he remembered as he lost his balance was the feeling of someone holding his shoulders as he fell.

* * *

**I hope you had fun reading! Let me know your thoughts, suggestions, criti****cisms :) I'm doing my best to remain close to the books on this, as well as the show, so that's why John faints! More coming in about a week, once again, thoughts appreciated! **


	3. Violins and Promises

**_Hello! Have fun reading yet another installment of this story! _**

**_Keep in mind, there will be a swear in this chapter, but only one ;) _**

**_Disclaimer: if I owned Sherlock, I seriously doubt that we'd be waiting this long for a third season. But I don't. _**

* * *

_"Yet human intelligence has another force, too: the sense of urgency that gives human smarts their drive. Perhaps our intelligence is not just ended by our mortality; to a great degree, it is our mortality."_

_― Adam Gopnik_

* * *

Sherlock was able to carry John up the stairs with the help of Mrs. Hudson, who, after almost fainting herself, then saying that "it's only logical to always expect the unexpected with you, dear", was much easier to convince of his permanency than John seemed to be.

Taking his bag off of the sofa and laying John down on it, Sherlock looked around the flat once more. After a lengthy examination of everything, his glance landed upon John, who looked strange. An abhorrent mustache on his face, and dark circles around his eyes. Sherlock carefully took out John's prescription bottle form his pocket, noticing John's greying hair and finally looking at the cane, which he was careful not to forget back at the restaurant. The cane showed extreme wear and tear, and so did the prescription bottle. The medicine was Vicodin, and Sherlock saw that most of the pills were broken in half; John obviously had wanted to avoid addiction while still battling his pain, or at least attempting to.

Sherlock sat down, back against the edge of the sofa's protruding cushions, his head landing on their edges.

Mrs. Hudson was an angel, he had decided. Probably the most tactful of all human beings he has ever met, for she did not bother them. Well, maybe she was still in shock herself, but this is not where Sherlock's mind was at the moment.

One hour passed, and Sherlock decided to play. He had not played in the longest time, and he took out the paper he gave to John, who had dropped it while losing consciousness.

Gently taking his violin in hand, setting the notes on the stand, he started playing. The familiar feeling of the bow tugging at the violin strings brought comfort and a sense of belonging. He played ever so tentatively at first, but soon he was completely engulfed, and when the notes ended, he kept on playing, adding on pieces of other works, some his own and some not.

Then he heard someone stirring behind him.

* * *

The first thing he felt was a sharp pain in his leg, then his left hand. Then he heard something, some kind of music, but he had not heard it before. Then John opened his eyes.

Feeling extremely woozy, he could only see the bare outlines of the things around him, but his vision was sufficient for him to see a tall, slender man holding a violin, standing close to a window and playing it.

Rational objections, reminders of everything, memories all ran through his head at once and he decided to stand up. As soon as he attempted any movement, the man at the window had turned around and hurried up to him, violin still in hand. He looked at John with a concerned and analytical look on his face. Then he put his violin down upon the coffee table and helped John stand up. John almost lost his balance again, his head beginning to spin dreadfully, but the glass of water that Sherlock had already prepared had done wonders.

Once John's vision had returned to normal, he was finally collected enough to see Sherlock's face.

It's contours were more sharply defined, as well as darker circles around his eyes, or was skin just paler..? Another thing that John noticed that got him slightly interested was a couple of greying hairs in Sherlock's loose curls. This peaked his curiosity, but his feeling of fear and anger strongly overpowered this interest.

"Sherlock?" John stepped away from him, putting his water glass down.

Sherlock's previously not particularly engaged mood rapidly shifted to full attention on John.

"What happened? Tell me the truth, please," John asked while looking at the carpet rather than at Sherlock himself.

"I had to, John, for you particularly-"

"For me? You killed yourself for me?" His voice escalated in volume and his tone became harsher. John was finally looking at Sherlock, his body in an offensive position and his face pained.

"Three bloody years, Sherlock! I've been to bloody hell and back! You fucking git!" With the last phrase John pushed against Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't resist.

Sherlock let John hit his face and his chest. When he tasted blood on the right side of his lip, however, he grabbed John's wrists and started kneeling, bringing John down with him.

John forcefully brought his hands closer to himself, making Sherlock have to let go.

Sherlock tried to touch John's shoulder in some sort of comforting motion, but John quickly drew back.

"Don't touch me, okay? Just don't. Not yet," said John in a voice that was in stark contrast to his previous tone. He was quiet, and a little bit raspy, and was again refusing to look straight at Sherlock. It was this tone that had scared Sherlock, for he knew that only truly infuriated or broken people speak this way. It was small and so quiet.

"John, I'm back. That is all that matters, right?" said Sherlock, trying to tend to John as one would a small child.

"I am here to stay now. John, look at me; I cannot claim to fully understand your feelings right now, but I will tell you one thing that I want you to remember no matter what- it's just the two of us against the rest of the world. Keep it in mind. Please."

Sherlock let go of John's shoulders, only now understanding that he was even holding them. John only uttered "good night" and went towards his room.

Sherlock noticed that his limp was slightly less severe than before, yet made its presence known.

**Hey, hope you had fun reading! Please review, as that makes me happy :) **


	4. Halving Vicodin, or Sentiment

**_Hello! I welcome you and congratulate you and your patience. _**

**_Disclaimer: if I owned Sherlock, I seriously doubt that we'd be waiting this long for a third season. But I don't._**

* * *

_ is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is the compensation for change, danger, and trouble. An animal perfectly in harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism. Nature never appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is no intelligence where there is no change and no need of change."_

_― H.G. Wells, The Time Machine _

* * *

Sherlock was reading a book. The phases of shock and anger seem to have passed. Left are denial and grief. Though denial seems unlikely at this point, and grief as well.

Sherlock analyzed the book, noting multiple parallels to his own life.

The book itself wasn't altogether bad, "Smoke and Shorty" by Jack London. Both were smart and met in Alaska, where Smoke was looking for a challenge and Shorty was looking for a new life.

Insomnia. That why he was reading. And he found this book in the small parcel that Mycroft must have placed in his bag before his flight.

Sherlock just couldn't fall asleep.

Putting the book down, he contemplated on how to get back on speaking terms with John. He understood that John was scarred. He understood that his friend was broken. He understood that he was the catalyst for the downfall. For the first time, Sherlock was utterly baffled. He didn't know what to do, how to get John to heal. Sherlock stood up and walked soundlessly to the living room. He'd heard some noises and decided to see what was happening without attracting attention to himself. He resembled a small child that was up to no good as he walked down the halls.

A dim, warm light was emanating from a lamp that one could see from the hallway that led from the living room to the bedrooms. As he walked closer and closer to the end of the hallway, he heard a strange noise-not the noise of floorboards, but the sound of deep, erratic breathing. Then Sherlock saw something that shocked him.

A small figure leaned with his back against the wall, barely illuminated by the lamp, his face was covered in something wet that sparkled in the light. His body was quaking and his mouth screamed silently, while his hands balled up the cloth of his shirt in his fists. Then, he slowly sank to the ground, his head in between his hands on his knees. His back moved with every breath, and every breath came at random times in between calming, trembling breaths. Sherlock moved out of the hallway and sat on the floor next to his friend. He tried moving as unnoticeably as possible as he did this. Then, in a rare impulse of emotion, he placed his hand on the shoulder of the other man on the floor. This time, his hand stayed there while his fingers softly drew small circles on the rough fabric of the crumpled shirt.

* * *

_"The writer's curse is that even in solitude, no matter its duration, he never grows lonely or bored."  
_

_― Criss Jami_

* * *

John woke with a splitting headache and extremely sore back, unfortunate reminders that sleeping in strange positions while on the floor does not constitute for a good night's sleep.

The second thing that John noticed was that he was lying against something warm and soft. Realizing that he still hadn't opened his eyes, when he did, he saw that he was somehow propped up by pillows and blankets. Sherlock was lying curled up in the fetal position on the floor a few feet away with a very small plaid blanket. John, on the other hand, was covered with two very large and warm ones. Sherlock was sleeping in an uncharacteristically deep manner, his shoulders completely covered by the blanket and his entire body lower than his chest uncovered and rolled up. It seemed to John that Sherlock must have kept watch over him at night. Just in case.

It took him a couple of seconds of intense thought to get used to being in 221B again, and then he mechanically got up to get some tea. Mrs. Hudson had kept the cupboards stocked.

With a nice, hot cup of tea in hand, John sat next to Sherlock, who was sleeping so deeply, it was almost a possibility that he was without consciousness. He was already covered by the rest of the blankets, and John decided to do something impulsive.

The fact of the matter is that John had never forgotten Sherlock. He had a hard time not just adjusting to his absence, but accepting it. He saw him in his dreams, his death. During daytime, countless associations of small things would race through his mind, memories popping up at the smallest everyday things. And it hurt.

John took his left hand and touched Sherlock's face. It was just a juvenile impulse. To make sure that he was there.

And then John started to leave.

As he was leaving, he noticed that the amount of pills in his pill-bottle had been halved; instead of half of the bottle being full, there was only about a quarter left. Quietly smirking, John made his way out of the flat, looking at Sherlock on the floor.

It caused him pain to look at Sherlock, and he felt it very strongly, and yet the fact that he was here, that he was back.

He was gone for three years without a word.

He must have known how bad it had been for John.

Mycroft must have had a hand in this.

Sherlock couldn't have not known.

He remembered how when he saw Sherlock in his dreams, he would usually end up awake and covered in a cold sweat, and lately, with Mary attempting to comfort him, he would just not sleep. John has had friends before, but no one so close to a brother, a friend, and a child as Sherlock Holmes.

He knew that Sherlock went to kingdom come and back and that he would do the same for Sherlock a thousand times over. And yet all of the hopelessness and terrible feeling of utter desperation...

John now looked upon Sherlock with a mixture of contempt and sadness, kindness and pain.

Sherlock moved slightly in his sleep, eliciting soft, mewling-like sounds as he turned over.

John quietly closed the door to the flat behind him.

* * *

**_Hello, hope you had fun reading! Soon, in the next chapter or the one after that, there will be a case developing. _**

**_I warn you, the later chapters will be up in a while, with at least a week's, probably longer, wait. I_**

**_If you like, or have any constructive criticism, please review, for that makes me happy and is a surprisingly effective stimulus. Any ideas and suggestions are quite welcome as well!_**


	5. Scotland Yard and a New Case!

**Sherlock's thoughts are in italics, just so you know. A slightly updated/fixed version of this chapter. **

**Have fun!**

* * *

Sherlock woke up and the first thing he felt was warmth. Someone had cocooned him in a blanket and laid pillows out around his body in a manner reminding him of the rock-patterns laid out by pagan worshippers in the forests. "I should really be flattered," he thought.

Blankets, children, caring.

Grief, anger, hostility.

He was quite confused, how can both the hostility of of someone in pain be combined with the caring of someone very close?

Sherlock doesn't like it when John looks at the floor because it feels wrong. There are no other way to describe it, as feeble and cliche as this sounds in his head. As this runs through his mind, various examples of cliches from popular media run in his thoughts, the spelling and pronunciation of the word itself as well as it's origin. And then the feeling he gets when he looks at John and John looks at his shoes instead of his eyes.

_I don't like that feeling. It is this strange sensation as if someone is nagging and the annoying feeling is coming from inside of my head, ugh. It's like a personal Anderson living in my brain._

_I have things to do and people to see today, oh so many things to do!_

_I look around and see a cup of tea on the kitchen countertop, John must have made it. Judging by how cold the beverage is, he probably left about an hour so ago. I wonder how_.

Lestrade must have hundreds of cases piled up, I wonder if there are any worth pursuing... My blog seems to have remained essentially untouched as well.

John's Vicodin rattled in his pockets, he took half of his bottle yesterday. He couldn't just throw it out... He put it away instead. Maybe his pain won't be gone by the time his pills are, and Sherlock liked having a stash in the medicine cabinet; He put it in the very back of the cabinet, just in case.

The tall, thin man started neatening up; all of his things were still here, even the spare toothbrush in the bathroom. That shows no wish to let go. Interesting.

It felt hollow. To leave. He could not describe the feeling itself much better, for all of the technical terms do not do it justice. He saw John at his grave, and that's when he realized he broke him. Sherlock couldn't live knowing that this person, the only person who was ever as close to him as a brother, friend, and parent all in one is broken because of Sherlock himself. It's just wrong.

The way that his mind worked, he could not see information, but instead he knew it. In the back of his mind the knowledge appears in the form of words, references, but never images. He physically cannot visualize, even a familiar face I can draw and describe every millimetre, and yet he does not see it. John he could see as more than a reference and word and a series of memories- in a way, everything that is associated with him is in some type of different encoding, it's quite interesting actually. But it is sentiment, and that is something that right now, he most definitely did not have time for.

Quickly pulling on his coat and my scarf, which is getting much too tattered, he ran out of the door and towards Scotland Yard.

The cold nipping at the revealed skin of his wrists and fingers feels invigorating and his mind is already anticipating a pleasant task ahead.

* * *

"What the hell?" is all that Lestrade could say. He stares incredulously, his jaw dropped. No time! Sherlock's mind has started to run, give me work, give me problems! I've missed them ever so much.

"Lestrade, how many unsolved cases have you accumulated during my absence?"

"Sherlock- never mind. You do know that we can function without you, right? There is one major case that's still outstanding-" Lestrade didn't get to finish, seeing as Sally Donovan cut in.

"-and you'll get a kick out of it, seeing as this is exactly the kind of thing you get off on, freak. The murders started right after your 'death', and you know what I think?" Not being able to take the repetitiveness that every conversation with this woman led to, Sherlock answered for her, "I couldn't care less what you think, but I think that Anderson's wife will soon see that you're getting reckless. By soon, I think that you shouldn't have done what you did with him last night. She isn't as stupid as you lot think. Good luck getting caught."

Making some kind of grimace at him, she spitefully walks away, muttering curses under her breath. Lestrade, obviously annoyed (doesn't take me to figure that one out), gestures for Sherlock to follow him.

"I guess it would be useless to ask you where you've been all this time, and why, right?" Lestrade asks while handing me a thick file with a large amount of paper in it.

"Yes, it would, Detective Inspector."

Suddenly, Sally walks into the room that they were in, saying that "there's another one."

Lestrade and Holmes hurry to the scene.

* * *

"Damn..." is all Lestrade can say while looking at this one. _Honestly, I'm afraid I have to agree with him, this is quite peculiar..._ What he saw was a Nordic blood eagle.

* * *

**If you liked, leave a review, you'll make me happy too :)**


	6. Dreadfully British Name

**For those of you who looked up what a Nordic blood eagle is, I commend you. I will keep this story to a T, trying to tone down the actual goriness of the scenes, keeping to just descriptions. I do plan to keep factual accuracy. **

**This chapter will involve another person with a particularly curious umbrella who will make a brief appearance, as well as Mary! Mary, though not a favorite character of mine, is an important part of the original storyline who cannot be ignored, I think. **

**Have fun reading this chapter, hope you enjoy- if you do, leave a review :) **

* * *

The only thing on John's mind now was Mary. Maybe not the only thing, but a predominant thought.

She knew who Sherlock was and was the one to try and piece John back together again after his fall. But would she be willing to share him, or would she escape, like all of the previous girlfriends?

No, Mary isn't like all of them, John though. Just like Sherlock has his own cavity within John's heart, which he sporadically occupies, so does Mary.

These thoughts were all on I his way to work. Just before stepping into the large hospital, John decided to talk to Mary. Tell her about Sherlock, he knows he has to, even if it drives her away.

Nervously and yet determinedly, John typed in her number, one that he knows by heart, same as it's owner.

He waited what seemed like an endless time, thinking about what he would say and praying she'd react better than he did yesterday. A passerby elbowed him because he was standing half in the doorway to the hospital , half out.

"Hello? John, are you okay? What happened yesterday?"

_Sigh of relief._

"I had a small surprise at the restaurant that kind of shook me up, Mary. It's, um, it's Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

"What about him?

_Pause. _

"John, are you there?"

_Pause. _

"Yeah, Mary, sorry. The thing is that he's back. And I was in a bit of a shock yesterday when leaving the restaurant and I couldn't focus that well."

With a hint of relief and of perpetual worry Mary asked, "So you spent the night at 221B, your old flat?"

"Well, I may have lost consciousness and ended up there, yes. And Sherlock is the one who brought me there, I guess. He also stole half of my Vicodin, I guess he's trying to get me off of it."

"That's great, John! Your best friend is alive and I'll finally get an opportunity to see if he is as illustrious as you say. And god knows I've been trying to get you off of the meds forever."

John realized that he could finally breathe. Why had he been so worried? This is Mary, the nice, saint-like, wonderful Mary. She'd understand. She does understand.

"Mary, I hope you know that I love you and my dedication to you is endless. Right now, I think that Sherlock may need me a lot -"

"John, there is no need to explain- your best friend is back from the dead and you want to spend time with him and help him adapt. My only condition is that I get to meet him, okay?"

"Okay. I'm actually officially late for work now. Thank you. Just really thanks. Later, Mary."

"I love you, John."

"Me too, Mary."

As soon as he closed the phone and put it away, it made a loud and decisive beep.

_There's a case. Come, if convenient. - SH _

Less that thirty seconds later:

_If inconvenient, come anyway. It's interesting. -SH_

Less than a minute after that, John got one more text:

_Good morning, John. -SH_

To John's slight surprise, as well as a nostalgic sigh, a black car slowly rolled up to him. Quickly calling in sick, saying that he had spontaneously contracted the flu, John hung up and stepped into the car.

Mycroft sat with his usual stoic expression, looking him the eyes. A slight bit uncomfortable under his gaze, John squirmed in the seat, wondering where Anthea was.

"Well, Sherlock's back," said John.

"Yes, John, he is. I hope you understand what this entails? No questions concerning his whereabouts for the last three years, first of all. Secondly, Mary seems a very sensible woman, and while I find your allegiance to Sherlock to be faithful, I hope that she realizes that she will have to share you," said Mycroft, enunciating his brother's name, as well as the words "sensible" and "share".

"I know that the past three years have been hard on you, Dr. Watson. Yet I do not know if you realize that they were equally hard on my brother as well. I just want to be sure that nobody ends up investing themselves too much in a friendship or relationship that fails, because life provides no second chances. As I am sure you know all too well."

John did not get to answer as he was dropped off at the entrance to a dark alleyway. The car speeded off, John not completely comprehending how exactly he exited it, but was met by Lestrade promptly.

"John, we really need you. The git won't tell us any of his deductions without you there," said Lestrade while leading John, who was in fact still limping, to a rather ominous-looking pathway at the end of which was, obviously, a crime scene. A quite unpleasant sight welcomed John, but before he could even properly register what it really was he was seeing Sherlock strode up to him with a confident swagger and bounce in his step.

"Have you ever encountered this before, John? I wouldn't think you have. It's called a 'Nordic blood eagle'. Now this," he said, pointing to the body, "is supposed to be an execution method of the ancient Scandinavian people. Can you tell me anything about him, John?"

The young man's spine was broken at the ribs, and the ribs flayed out, resembling bloody wings. He was missing his lungs and his heart, and the wounds, as terrible as they were, seemed to have some other substances embedded in them. He was dressed from the waist down, but lacking his shoes. John said all of this to Sherlock, and then, putting on a pair of plastic gloves, came closer to the body to examine.

"What else, John? Do you see anything else?" asked Sherlock, intently staring at John. "This must be some kind of a genetic thing," thought John before continuing.

"Well, all of the cut marks were made by someone with an extraordinarily steady hand, someone probably more accustomed to gore than the average housewife. But the instrument with which the marks were done with does not seem to be as sharp as you would see in a doctor or medical examiner's office, though no doubt our killer had access to them. The victim was alive when the injuries were inflicted, you can see by the degree of hemorrhaging near each wound. Just guessing, but I'd say this is a serial as well, judgkng from the (John refrained from using the word 'artistry' or 'skill') meticulousness here," finished John, looking at Sherlock, waiting for him to point out everything he had wrong.

"The substance is salt, it was traditionally added to the wounds of people so executed. The instruments that were used to make these wounds were probably made of iron and hand-sharpened.

"Notice the victim's feet, he obviously did a lot of walking. Young, approximately twenty years old, and doing a lot of walking while living in London. The calloused mark on the middle finger of his right hand shows that he does a lot of writing, while the watch he wears also on his right hand, interesting... it shows us that he was a student. Probably something that has to do with mathematics. Obviously on scholarship at the university which he attends, and probably not living in the lap of luxury right now, note the ramen noodle stain the rather inexpensive trousers. His name is..."

At this point. Sherlock went to check the tag of the pants the young man was wearing, and both John and Lestrade followed him with their gazes, while a young officer hurried to write everything down.

"Eric Olafsson! There is a puncture wound in his neck, I think some kind of mild sedative or tranquilizer was there. This is something that would take a long time, and John already said that the victim was alive during the time that the wounds were inflicted. Lestrade, John was right about this being a serial murder, and I'd like the files you were offering me earlier- I have a feeling that all of the victims are united by a modus operandi and a signature."

Sherlock strode out of the alley, but not before turning around and beckoning John to follow him.

They headed to Angelo's; rather, Sherlock headed and Watson followed.

* * *

"Sherlock, thank you for helping me out last night, getting me to 221B and all that. I live with Mary now, but I'll be able to help on many cases and still hang out with you," said John as they were already sitting at a table. He felt uncomfortable, somewhat sad as well saying this, but the image of Mary flashed by in his mind and he couldn't help but feel a little better.

Sherlock looked outside of the window, thinking over what to answer. He forgot about Mary. He forgot that John has a new life now, and that he is no longer going to be there for every fight and every chase. Even that infernal blog Sherlock got used to, but not anymore.

"I realize that, John. But I really hope you realize how much of a help you've been on cases. Just from a social standpoint suspects are more likely to open up to you than to me," Sherlock said, his voice hurried and his eyes avoiding John.

He didn't like what he'd come back to. A limping John with a new, serious girlfriend. But that was all sentiment, it wasn't supposed to be there. The work is what really matters. So...

"John, our killer is killing people using ancient, or at least antiquated, methods of execution. The way that he determines which method to use is by his victim's nationality and name- Scandinavian victim, ergo Nordic execution. The victims were alive for a long time while in our killer's hands. The removal of the heart is not part of the blood eagle method, nor of the ones in Lestrade's previous cases are bound to depict.

"I know it may be just a bit early as of right now, but don't you find that 'Sherlock Holmes' is a dreadfully British name?"

John spit out his tea after almost chocking on it and looked at Sherlock's face to see if this was a joke. It most definitely wasn't.

* * *

**Hope this wasn't too traumatizing and was fun to read! I will incorporate Mary into the story, and some other people as well. **

**Any ideas or suggestions or general comments do help me, and I'd love to hear anything you have to say, just use the little box down there :)**


	7. Back to Business!

**Hey! This is the next chapter :) **

**hope you have fun reading, and i just want to quickly thank everyone who reviews/favorites/follows, you guys make make me quite happy! **

**Insert standard disclaimer. **

**Without further ado: **

* * *

He was counting wholly upon John's reaction.

He anticipated Anger. Despair. He anticipated that John would leave.

Why was he hoping for something so utterly terrible?  
He didn't want John to get hurt any more. John had a family now, something he had wanted for so long. Sherlock could now only afford to have John in the capacity of a friend, he thought.

And yet he was so wrong once more.

John looked at him in surprise, a mixture of ire and excitement and something along the lines of nostalgia all running through his face.

"Sherlock, stop it! Can I have you back for at least twenty four hours before you go off again? Do you not realise how hard this has been for all of us- for me? I understand that for you, the Work is everything, and yet look at me, Sherlock- to me, you and Mary are the most important people I have. And you make it seem like you don't care. You try so hard, but I know that you care more than you can handle. I'm not going to let you do this, at least so soon- I just can't. Let's go get the rest of the case files from Lestrade, I want to be home in the evening. I honestly don't know how I'm even doing this again, I'm just postponing the inevitable realisation of the magnitude of all of this," John was quiet, and yet powerful, looking Sherlock right into the face as he said this. He stood up and waited for Sherlock to come to his senses.

Sherlock was wrong. He was extraordinarily wrong- his deductions and predictions were the polar opposite of what happened.

John had deduced him. It hit Sherlock all of a sudden and he looked at John with a mixture of both surprise and, whether he cared to admit it or not, a bit of pride.

"I spent three years trying to understand how your mind works. I hadn't gotten very far, but I know that I can't last another day not having you abuse my blog or knowing that I didn't do something," John was talking calmly as he and Sherlock stood outside and waited for a cab to bring them to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock smiled slightly and looked at John, who was fiddling with his cane, but still had all of his weight on his other leg.

"You cannot drive me away, no matter how hard you try, Sherlock."

Anger? John leaving? Never. It was absolutely preposterous to even try to induce such an event.

Life doesn't always follow one's anticipations.

* * *

Lestrade had been having an extraordinarily atrocious day- there were too many cold cases, not enough new cases, and his family was slowly falling apart in front of him.  
He sat in his swivel chair, drinking his tea and eating something that slightly resembled a sweet donut. He contemplated Sherlock's return; to be completely honest, he was expecting something like this all along. People like Sherlock Holmes do not die of suicide, and even if they do decide to commit suicide, it would never be something as public as throwing oneself off of a building in the centre of London. And Molly lasted about three weeks before telling him and making him swear not to tell John. It was hard seeing he last three years take their toll on his mate, Lestrade thought.

For the first year, John started limping again. He was quiet. Lestrade didn't know how John managed to even keep living in 221b, what with all of the memories. John did still work as a surgeon, taking on more and more shifts. He'd work a double shift and then cover for someone else, all in a row. After those days, Lestrade would watch John sleep like a corpse after going together to the pub. John never drank, and if he did, it was very little- same as with his meds.

Then came Mary- she was John's saviour. She helped him get back on his feet, figuratively speaking.

Lestrade was still thinking about how things had turned out. That Sherlock better thank Molly now. He already had all of the case files prepared for Holmes and Watson. All along, he knew how much he missed that git. He was glad he's back.

* * *

Molly was in the morgue. As usual. She had heard that Sherlock was back. Three years ago, she did not say a word when he asked for her help. He seemed so human at that moment, he knew just how much it would hurt everyone. He warned her. She smiled slightly, thinking about John. She witnessed his quiet downfall, his falling apart. She was good friends with Mary, and she knew that introducing them would be one of the best things she'd ever done.

And yet she keeps remembering one moment whenever she thinks about Sherlock Holmes, that enigma of a being, puzzle of a mind. He has a heart, one that he goes to great lengths to ignore, rather to hide. He looked so sad whenever she looked at him when John was looking away. Back then. Wonder how it is now, she thought.

Sherlock would be back today to hear her findings on the body of the latest victim she received. Now, she knew exactly how much she had to wait before seeing him again, the waiting game is almost over.

* * *

John looked at Sherlock in the cab. He looked tired. Utterly and completely drained.  
It hurt so much, but it was a pleasant type of pain, if such a thing exists. It held the promise of something absolutely wonderful in the near future.

Sherlock looked at John, catching his eye, and smiled as he hadn't for a terribly long time.

* * *

Case File #1  
Name: Jiang, Li  
(Anderson's horrid handwriting made the reading part extremely hard)  
Age: 35  
Not married, no living relatives.  
Latest psychological evaluation shows severe schizotypal tendencies and symptoms of depression. Refuses to take any prescription medicines. Last item she saw a therapist was three months before her death.  
(Scrawled at the bottom)  
Death by a thousand cuts. No heart.  
See other forms for details.

The rest of the file was thick with research.

* * *

Case File #2  
Name: Anakanassis, Nick  
Age: 42  
Not married, no living relatives.  
The few acquaintances he had said that he was quiet, very distant. Obsessed with ancient history, lately he had been even more distant than usual.  
Previous suicidal attempts.  
Hemlock poisoning. Book of Socrates' writings found within half a metre form the body. No heart.  
See other forms for details.

The rest of the file had some loose-leaf papers stuck inside, but they were not of interest to the detective, who quickly scanned the files.

* * *

In the third case file, only one thing was of interest to Sherlock- the last victim was also taking antidepressants and it has been six months since he'd last seen a therapist.

* * *

"Let's go see Molly, John. I need to check something with her," said Sherlock, beginning to walk quickly down the familiar road to the morgue, but realising to slow his pace for John who did his best to match his speed. He didn't want John to notice. John noticed.

They walked down the morgue halls, cold and scantily illuminated. Every step echoed loudly, unpleasantly so, and John was flooded with memories, a nagging feeling of déjà vu.

* * *

Sherlock opened the heavy door of the morgue with a single heave, holding it open for John. Molly immediately looked up to see who entered, and, quite unexpectedly to even herself, dropped the coffee cup she was holding in her hands. The element of surprise never fails to rock one's nerves, she thought.

* * *

**Hello! I do not know when the next chapter will be up (I tried talking a bit more about the other characters other than the Baler Street Boys, hope you like). I am really busy with life right now! But I will never abandon this until it's over, so do not lose hope or faith in me! **

**There will be more action in the next chapter!**

**I hoped not to make John to OOC, but I could kind of imagine him like this. Hope it worked for you too :) **

**Reviews always make me happy; any thoughts, constructive criticism and whatnot is always welcome :)**


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